


Who Says I Do?

by LadyAJ_13



Series: The Oxford Disaster Trio [4]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Discussions of marriage, Domestic, Episode: s03e04 Coda, Established Relationship, Fluff, Multi, Perhaps a sprinkling of angst because, Peter Jakes Didn't Leave Oxford, Polyamory, Season/Series 03, oh yeah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-27 05:54:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21387175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: “Who would marry who, do you think?” It's from nowhere, and Morse hums questioningly while Peter ignores it, comfortable in his half doze. “Between you two and me.”Morse sighs, the stroking stopping, and Peter opens his eyes to complain. His gaze meets blue, and her words catch up to him.“You marry Morse, and you become Joan Morse,” he says, still staring upwards; enough to catch the twitch of Morse's lips.
Relationships: Endeavour Morse/Peter Jakes/Joan Thursday
Series: The Oxford Disaster Trio [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1541815
Comments: 19
Kudos: 64





	Who Says I Do?

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the same 'verse as my fic 'Three's Company', but if you'd like to read as a standalone all you really need to know is that these three are together.

It's a dark evening in late February; wet and miserable outside, the kind of weather that sends umbrellas to their graves and chafes exposed skin to an angry red. But he and Morse had got out of work at a reasonable hour for once, and Joan's flat is warm and snug after battling the elements.

He's lying with his head in Morse's lap. He'd taken first shower when they got in, soaked as he was and snappy enough that Morse hadn't argued. His hair dried soft and fluffy while Morse cleaned up and Joan doled reheated stew into bowls. He thinks he looks stupid without the pomade, too much the little boy. But Joan likes to ruffle it when it's like this, like she's petting a puppy, and Morse... well Morse has something of a fascination with it. His eyes had lit up when he entered the kitchen, still scrubbing his own hair with a towel, and his fingers had twitched. So Peter leaves it, nights like this when no one else will see, and enjoys the slow stroking that weighs his eyelids down.

Joan leans back against the sofa. She's playing Clock Patience on the floor, while Morse listens to opera and Peter drifts. Her head rests just next to Peter's hand. He makes a Herculean effort, and tangles his fingers in her hair, brushing at her nape.

“Who would marry who, do you think?”

It's from nowhere, and Morse hums questioningly while Peter ignores it, comfortable in his half doze.

“Between you two and me.”

Morse sighs, the stroking stopping, and Peter opens his eyes to complain. His gaze meets blue, and her words catch up to him.

“You marry Morse, and you become Joan Morse,” he says, still staring upwards; enough to catch the twitch of Morse's lips.

“You'd have the same problem,” she points out, like that could ever be a possibility. She twists to look at the two of them, resting her elbows on the sofa, and nudges Morse's leg. “And you'd become Morse Jakes if you married him.”

“Never trust a man with two last names,” Peter laughs, and laughs harder when Morse tugs lightly at his hair in response.

“Not sure Joan Jakes is any better,” Morse argues.

“You know, you could take my name.”

“Three Thursdays in the precinct might be two too many.”

Three, Peter realises. DS Peter Thursday, DC Morse Thursday, and... well, DI Thursday. He can't help a small smile at the thought they'd have all ranks covered. But no, even in a fantasy situation that would never work.

“Leave aside the names,” Joan says. She sits back like this is a practical situation that actually needs resolving – like they could ever turn this into something official. “What would we do?”

“Do you want to get married?” Morse asks.

She looks at her hands. “I don't know. I always thought...”

Yes, always thought, thinks Peter. He'd always thought too, one day. But he'd thought about evenings like this – admittedly with only two, rather than three – but something not so dissimilar to what they have. His Mrs Jakes had been nothing more than a figure in the other chair or under his arm, nameless and faceless, and this is so much more. He wouldn't mind never marrying, if he has this. He'd like matching bands, but he can't think of that. It could never happen, and he won't waste what they have on false hope of more.

“I was engaged once,” Morse says quietly, and Joan gasps. Peter's attention snaps back to the conversation. “She left me. All a long time ago,” he adds with a smile. “It hurt then but now... not now.”

“You obviously wanted it though.”

He wants to know why Joan is pressing the topic, because there's nowhere good it can go. Morse shrugs.

“Let me-” she gets gracefully to her feet, and finds a notepad and a pen. She shoves it into Peter's hands. “Write our names.”

He does as instructed, slowly, carving Joan, Morse, Peter from pen ink to paper with more care than he ever uses. The results are neat, elegant. A product of the finest handwriting tutelage Cowley's secondary modern could provide.

She takes it back, folding the paper and tearing them into equal pieces, before folding again to cover the writing. She grabs a bowl from the kitchen and drops them in, swirling them around a few times like raffle tickets. She holds it out to Morse. “Pick.”

“Do we need to?”

“It's just a bit of fun!”

It is to her, he realises. A parlour game, a way to pass the time when the wind howls outside and the playing cards have lost their appeal. She's younger than both of them, not thinking seriously about any of this sort of thing, but now he knows Morse did, once. And he knows he has.

He wants to mark both of them as unavailable, he realises suddenly. Trapped, hopeless feelings flash red from countless nights, and he wants to stop them. He wants to stop the men who look Joan up and down, and he wants to stop the girls who stare and smile at Morse. He wants to stop those who look at him, too, he wants a shorthand, a way to put up walls without a hundred clipped conversations that display his disinterest without rudeness. Some way to put off the constables who rib him about lipstick on his collar, and are you coming for drinks this weekend, Sarge? Nudge nudge.

That's why people do it. Why they step beyond this warm cosiness and bother with ceremonies and rings and name changes. It's not for any of the inside stuff; a home can be built without it. It's for the outside. To whirl the merry go round to a stop, and tell the world – back off, this is mine.

Morse picks out a piece of paper, opens it, and reads. “Peter.”

Joan smiles, and shakes the bowl again. He takes another.

“M- me,” he says.

Peter closes his eyes. He doesn't want to see Morse's expression. Fingers tap on his cheekbone, though, and he reluctantly opens them again to see Morse smiling down at him. “Hello fiancé,” he jokes, before his humour fades. “I'd take two last names over anyone calling you Morse.”

That – that sends something hard and sharp through his chest, and Peter can't help it. He shifts, sitting up, and twists to kiss Morse deeply. It's all fantasy, it's all make believe, but Morse would take his name, and he doesn't have the words to respond to that, so he tries to say it in actions instead. “Joan,” he murmurs into the kiss, one hand flailing behind him until she catches it. He pulls her down, onto Morse's lap, and she hooks her legs over his, pinning them both.

He alternates, Morse, Joan, Morse, Joan.

“Joan Jakes isn't so bad,” she murmurs, between kisses. It's enough to send an echoing pang deep through him again – enough to gather both of them up in his arms, and hold on tight.

–

He's got more money in his wallet than he's ever even seen at one time before, courtesy of yesterday's lunchtime trip to the bank. It burned in his pocket all evening, and he's sure he's acting twitchy, wondering if he's going to be mugged any minute.

Morse is acting twitchy too, but that might just be Peter turning him down for lunch for the second day in a row. He heads off with Thursday instead, throwing a frown over his shoulder. Peter waits until they've had time to clear the station completely, before grabbing his coat.

His heart beats too fast the whole way. He'd planned out his route in advance, and he pushes past shoppers before stopping dead outside the door. He's knocked from behind, and finally steps into the dim shop. The tinkle of the bell is like a siren to his ears.

“Can I help you sir?”

This was a stupid idea. But the money is in his wallet, and taking it back to the bank... he can take a look.

“Um, wedding rings?”

“Right here sir. Are you looking for something traditional?”

He has no idea, so out of his depth, but nods. The tray the jeweller brings out is covered in gold. He picks a couple of rings up under the man's hawk-eyed stare, and puts them back. Then he pulls out another; slightly slimmer. It feels right.

“Do you know the lady's size?”

“Finger sized?”

The jeweller nods like he gets this a lot. “She can have it resized,” he comforts. “But I can fix yours now.”

“Oh.” Peter looks at the others. “I, um- had to stop a suspect the other day. Copper,” he adds quickly, flashing his badge. “My hand- the fingers.” He looks at them again. “Can you make it one size smaller than this?”

“I can resize it when the swelling has gone down,” the jeweller says, looking at his unblemished hand with confusion.

“No, just – just now.”

“Of course, sir.”

–

The second jewellers is easier; he picks out a band, he holds out his hand, the jeweller nods and produces a perfectly sized ring.

–

The boxes sit in his sock drawer for weeks as he waits for the perfect moment. He ignores when the weeks technically become months, when February turns to Spring, and the weather breaks into early summer before he knows it. They're all busy, with cases that stretch Cowley PD and turn Morse into a quieter, bristlier creature, although one that pats dust from Peter's jumper for longer than necessary when a tunnel rains down on him, and smirks when he keeps touching a medal he can't quite believe is real.

Joan starts a new job too, with colleagues that she wants to become friendships taking up her free time. And of course, the lighter evenings make everything harder, bringing eyes onto their comings and goings.

Then Morse faces down a tiger, and Peter can't think of anything. Finds it hard to let him go at all, following him into his flat and fastening a hand around his wrist for the evening. He calls Joan one handed, unable to remember what he told her, just knows when she turns up that her face is drawn and white, and she looks like she did when she heard about that tunnel.

They all get drunk that evening.

It's still not the right time, but next time he changes his socks he moves all three rings into one box, and slips it into his jacket pocket.

–

The call sends ice through his blood. Joan's bank. A hold up.

Thursday grabs him by the shirt in the scramble out the door, benched, now, of all times, but the look in Peter's eyes must convince him of something, because he just nods and lets go. Peter drives, gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turn pale and his fingernails leave marks in the leather.

Thursday smokes, great lungfuls of the stuff, and hacks out coughs that sound no more than a metre from death.

The scene is already in motion when they get there. Bright has taken control, and he never thought he'd come to like the man, but he knows how to stay calm in a crisis, and that's what they need right now. Because he feels like his stomach is going to come up any minute, and Thursday's pacing like an angry bear, and neither of them are on top form – but he can still follow orders, so if Bright tells him to move the gawkers back, he'll move the goddamn gawkers.

“Where the hell is Morse?” asks Bright.

He didn't think there was another level for his stomach to sink to, but there it goes.

“The bank,” he whispers. Morse had mentioned it, off-hand, this morning as he'd scraped a brush through his hair. It's always a rush, the three of them getting ready in one place, so they don't stay over on week nights all that often. It had been a treat. Peter had cooked up three egg sandwiches and Joan had taken hers to go, last in the shower because she starts latest. “The bank,” he says louder, “I forgot.” How could he forget? “He said he was going to the bank.”

“This bank?” asks Bright, but it's clear what they're all thinking. If Morse hasn't shown up by now, it's because he can't.

“He didn't say.” Joan had still been in the shower, not there to ask the question. Peter hadn't thought. It was a throwaway line, just a reason he wouldn't be around for lunch.

“Right, well, a man on the inside.” Bright takes it in his stride, turning back to the hubbub, and Peter thinks about sinking to his knees. Almost does, but turns the wobble into a step, covers by turning and lighting a cigarette that he then forgets to smoke. Just lets it dangle from his fingers, ash forming then falling to the ground.

Thursday can stomp around and shout, although God knows where he's gone now. But he can't, because it's not his daughter and bagman in there. It is, at most, two of his friends.

It's his whole world.

–

Somehow – _somehow – _they both make it out. Peter is going to have words with Morse, though, once he can speak again, about drawing fire the way he did. Except he probably won't, because he'd have done the same, for Joan. Or for Morse.

There were no stares at the way Morse and Joan clung to each other, and Peter feels a tiny flicker, now that it's over – relief that they'd been there together. Had each other. Joan is still shaking, and Morse is still bleeding, but he's barely got there when Joan is being led away where they can't follow. The Thursdays wrapping her in family and taking her away from them.

He stands next to Morse, sleeves brushing, wanting nothing more than to hold onto him tightly.

They walk, instead, to Joan's flat. They know it'll be empty, but they both have a key, and it feels more like their place than either of their own homes. Peter lets them in, sits Morse on the toilet and perches on the side of the bath to clean the graze on his cheek.

“Are you okay?” he asks huskily. They're the first words either of them have spoken, and Morse just shakes his head, leans until his forehead rests on Peter's chest, and shudders when Peter wraps his arms around him tight. He almost lost him. He almost lost this. “Me neither,” he admits.

It's a long night, but neither of them suggest bed. Instead they sit curled around one another in the living room. Peter pours them both scotches, but they sit untouched on the coffee table. It's better than nothing, being here, but they almost lost Joan too and Peter knows Morse is feeling the same emptiness he is. There's too much space on this sofa.

Just as the first streaks of day appear in the sky, Morse grumbles and extricates himself from Peter. Peter scrubs a hand over his face. He'll probably have to work today. Morse can swing a day off, but everyone will expect him in. He's not ready. He reaches out, grabs Morse's hand.

“Let's go get her,” Morse says, pulling Peter up, and catching him when he sways.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Let's just go. I need to.”

Put like that, Peter can't think of a reason not to. He throws away both their drinks while Morse shoves on his shoes. They lock up while the sky is still more dark than light, and retrace steps to the police station. Once there, it's nothing for Peter to sign in a little (a lot) early and take out a car. He hands the keys to Morse, though, who drives them through still empty streets to a familiar house and parks.

They sit in silence, as he realises neither of them thought about how to get Joan. It's not like they can knock on the door, and ask if Joan is in. Hello sir, we've come to take your traumatised daughter away from you. We need her more. She needs us.

The minutes tick away, and with each one the sky lightens. Morse fidgets, and Peter watches from the corner of his eye. Eventually, he can't take it any more, snaking out a hand to run down soft jumper until it finds Morse's, tapping an irregular beat on the steering wheel. He laces their fingers together, rubbing his thumb in slow circles, until he feels Morse slump into the seat.

In the end, the door opens for them, and out steps Joan.

She looks as tired as she did last night, expression tight, and closes the door behind her with deliberate carefulness. She walks down the garden path as they get out of the car, but turns left. She hasn't seen them.

“Joan!” he calls.

She turns. She's only metres away, but he just looks, Morse a steady presence at his side. She shakes her head, one hand covering her face as she comes back towards them. She walks right into him, a slow motion head butt of a movement, and that's when he realises she's crying, hiding her tears in his shirt. They're going through, little damp patches that intensify when he wraps an arm around her. It's dangerous, and beyond that it's _stupid_, right here in front of the Thursday house, but he grabs Morse with the other arm and reels him in as well, until they're all leaning on each other.

“Let's go home,” she hiccups eventually, pulling back. He nods, scrubbing at his eyes. Morse has been crying as well, his eyes still glassy, and he motions them both into the back of the car, taking the keys and driving them all away a smidgeon too quickly for a police officer. 

He doesn’t care what anyone might say. He's calling in sick.

–

Joan changes into her nightdress when they get home, and grabs a blanket from the bed to curl up under on the sofa. Morse makes tea in the kitchen while Peter holds her, then pushes into their little cocoon. It's June, and far too warm for blankets, but he has to admit it's comforting. Like their own little fort.

Come eight, he does call in sick, then hangs up and Morse calls the same number over again. There's less acting needed on his part, just a reassurance from the voice on the other end that they'll send someone else to collect Thursday.

It's not the right time, but perhaps there won't be a better one. He pulls out the ring box as Morse hangs the phone back on the cradle.

“I got these,” he says conversationally, because he realises in all his waiting for the right time, he never thought about how he was going to do this. Part of him thinks he should sink onto one knee, but he's got Joan's arms wrapped around his waist, and he can't imagine Morse would appreciate the gallantry. So he just opens the box. “I thought...”

Morse bends for a closer look. “Rings?”

“One for each of us.”

“Marriage?” asks Joan. 

“Sort of. Between us, I suppose, can't exactly have a big church do.”

“My mum'll miss out on a chance to wear her wedding hat.” It's the most normal Joan has sounded since yesterday morning, and Morse's smile as he falls to his knees in front of the sofa sends warmth through Peter too. “Which one is mine?” she asks.

It's simple, in the end. He hadn't expected they would turn him down, but he hadn't expected it all to feel so natural either. For Morse to find the thinnest band and slide it onto Joan's finger. For Joan to pick out the other two and hold them up, judging the size, before choosing the biggest and slowly running it up over Peter's knuckle. Peter takes the last one, turns to Morse and pushes it on to his finger. Surprisingly, given his hedging in the jewellers, it fits.

They don't say anything special, but they do partake in the tradition of kissing the bride and groom. Their wedding breakfast is toast and more tea, and their honeymoon an afternoon of dancing in the living room before retiring, exhausted after a sleepless night, to bed.

The next day, Peter and Morse will sit tense at the breakfast table rubbing at the rings, knowing they have to take them off. And then relax when Joan emerges from their bedroom with three necklace chains in hand. It's easy to string them, and easier still to hide delicate metal under shirts and collars and ties.

It's easier, too, to face the outside world then. With the weighty press of body warm metal around their necks, and happiness close. 

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a fluffy little thing about how none of their names work together if they got married, and then coda got involved and it all ended up being more wrought than I expected. But hopefully also fluffy?
> 
> Clock Patience - https://www.wikihow.com/Play-Clock-Patience - it's fun, and very satisfying when you win. It's uber annoying when you lose quickly, because it takes quite a while to set up.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Snowstorms and Soup](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22213657) by [existentialflu (sotakeabitofcalpol)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sotakeabitofcalpol/pseuds/existentialflu)


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